The Little That Remains
by cLoswin
Summary: A memorial service held by Doctor John Hamish Watson in honour of his fallen friend, for the few who still believed in Sherlock Holmes. The service was small and short lived.


Obituary by John Watson

_A memorial service held by Doctor John Hamish Watson in honour of his fallen friend, for the few who still believed in Sherlock Holmes. Among the attending were DI Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Martha Hudson, and some few that Sherlock had helped and acquainted with in the past. Mycroft Holmes was not welcome. The service was small and short lived._

"Good morning everyone, it's nice to see you here. I'm John Watson. I've prepared a bit to say, so erm, I'll just…do that now.

*ahem*

Well. Sherlock Holmes.

He…wasn't really a sociopath. I suppose that's why he always tacked the "high functioning" onto that detail of his self-description. He'll never admit it to anyone, stubborn as he is-_was_-but Sherlock was _very_ capable of the sentiment he so often bit his thumb at.

I suppose, given his often first impression, it would be easy to differentiate Sherlock from a sociable, friendly, pleasant person, because…well…he wasn't that. At all. He was terrible with other people. Sherlock had wretched manners, a complete disregard for the wants, needs and feelings of others, a total disrespect for the rules; he was quite horrendous in that area, really. You all know exactly what I mean.

There were many times that I would try to show Sherlock how _very not good _he often acted, but that's just the thing. Sherlock wasn't good. He was never going to be that simple. He was so much more than that.

Of course, Sherlock _was _completely bloody impossible to live with. He'd make me race across the city simply to lend him my phone; he'd wake me up at ungodly ours of the night with his ridiculous, explosive experiments. He'd sit about in nothing but a bed sheet all of the day, and let me tell you this, those were some of the most conservative things you'd see him in. And never mind bathing, eating, or sleeping; whilst on a case, the facts and results were all that mattered.

But these were the qualities that made Sherlock who he was. He was brilliant, absolutely the most intelligent man I've ever met. He was devoted to his work; he lived for it. He was never happy unless he was doing something productive. He never showed any particular sympathy for a generic human life, mind you, but he saved far more than anyone else in this room, didn't he? And he never asked for a thank you.

He was brave. He was so very brave. He faced death often, and all he could complain about were that he'd gotten something wrong, he'd made a miscalculation. He was so…haha…God, he was stubborn.

Sherlock was not selfish. No matter what anyone has to input. He cared for few, but he cared a great deal. He was a companion, a _brother _to me. He had his own way of showing it. He saved me from a very dark place.

When I returned home from Afghanistan I was lost, hopeless, and depressed. I saw a therapist regularly, I was living in a one room flat alone, I had to force myself to eat, drink, get out of bed in the morning. I earned myself a bloody limp…. psychosomatic …whether I would admit it or not, I longed to be back in battle. I missed it.

And when things began taking a turn for the worst, a buddy of mine introduced me to Sherlock. He deduced the hell out of me upon first glance, and decided we'd be seeing a flat together. It was terrifying, why I decided to trust that lunatic, but something about that man told me to ignore the warnings being thrown at me just follow. And I'm so very glad I listened.

Sherlock saved my life. He showed me companionship and adventure, compassion…he tricked me out of that terrible limp and brought me back to life. There were so many things that I found in him…in the short 18 months we ate, worked, shouted, ran, argued, laughed, and lived together. He was kind, he was cautious, he was selfless.

I don't know what was going through his head when he-_jumped_-frankly I don't really want to know. But it can't have only been about him. He cared far too little about himself to-do that-it's just, it wouldn't have been his style. I hope he had a plan.

Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, on the streets, solving mysteries together. Those were the days, weren't they? Now they'll be memories. But the best of them. We're all just memories in the end, yeah?

I suppose just a few more words may suffice to tell the little that remains.

Sherlock Holmes was an exceptional, incredible, impossible man. He was by far the best and most wisest man, and was the most human human being, that I have ever known. He was my best friend. And no one will ever make me believe that he lived a lie.

That's it. Thanks."


End file.
